


Age Shall Not Weary Him

by undun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Grief, M/M, Reichenbach-I'm not finished yet!, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:44:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's gone and John is left in a detached sort of panic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Age Shall Not Weary Him

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse me, I seem to have drabbled all over you. I woke up at 4.30am and this was writing itself in my head. (Probably a good thing all my grim is going into fic at the moment.)

 

He was at the peak, the tip, the apex. Shining like a beacon.

 

No, that wasn’t right. An hour before he’d been at the top, perfect, brilliant – puzzling, deducing, concluding. This was Sherlock split through like a flawed diamond – the moment before the fall.

 

The photo showed him a second before he went over the ledge, arms already half spread, balance over the tipping point. Fuzzily immortalised in desperate surrender.

 

God. Bet the person with the phone camera was tempted to throw it down at the ground in disappointment, having tapped the still photo button rather than the video.

 

John wanted to rip the photo apart. Tear it into tiny pieces, find Sherlock and ram them all down his throat. Traitor. Bastard. _Unfeeling machine_.

 

Liar.

 

Why did he lie? Why did he go to his death, willingly, on a _lie?_

 

He folded the paper carefully, placed it on the floor beside the chair: each small movement as controlled as a surgeon excising a brain tumour. If he didn’t hang on to that tight control, he would cause devastation. He would splinter every piece of furniture in the flat. He would set fire to St. Bart’s. He would cover himself in semtex (salute to the late Moriarty there: Sherlock’s suicide twin) and walk into the Met trigger poised to blow.

 

He would destroy _everyone_.

 

Sherlock knew that about him. He must have. Knew that John was violence and mayhem held on a viciously tight leash, denial in every cuddly jumper and friendly smile. Denial rendered unbelievable and downright laughable after shooting an unarmed man just for _talking_ to Sherlock (unlicensed gun tucked under his beige jumper). Okay, he was talking very persuasively, and Sherlock, the great git, was listening – pill poised to swallow. Still.

 

He’d hardly known Sherlock then. A few months later John would probably have ripped the cabbie’s face off and made him eat it.

 

John wondered if that was why his therapist had it all so wrong. She’d seen him as a victim rather than what he really was.

 

Mycoft had it right. He was violence ready to erupt with nothing to aim at until Sherlock came along and pointed him in different directions. _Here, John. Now, here. Bring your gun!_

 

Suddenly he was alive again (ironic), and he had purpose and action. Every complaint about Sherlock’s behaviour and his own lack of sleep was part of his careful denial. It worked. The truth was never broached. Sherlock played along with the illusion of John wanting normalcy and _nice_.

 

He was gone. And there was no one left that _knew_ him – that accepted the real him, unexamined and unconditional. No one to give him a purpose for which he was made.

 

How long could John hang on? Would he crack straight through like Sherlock, taking innocent people with him when he did? At least Sherlock managed not to injure anyone. He wasn’t counting Moriarty.

 

_Should I follow him on one last adventure?_

John stared at the empty chair.

 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

**Author's Note:**

> (the lovely hajimebassaidai suggested adding a note here to credit the inspiration for the title, though it rather gives the game away about where I live!)
> 
> The Ode
> 
> They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;  
> Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
> At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
> We will remember them.


End file.
